It took me two tries to finally accept that OnlyFans wasn’t for me. No matter how many thousands I made, the environment left me drained, unhappy, and disconnected from myself. Leaving for good lifted a weight off my shoulders — and now, I’m focused on rebranding into the woman I truly am, not the Instagram model persona I built to feed my OF.

I want to be a prosecutor, but here’s the truth: I don’t know how to stomach injustice without choking on it. Every time a rapist walks free, I feel rage in my bones—and if I can’t even read a headline without spiraling, how the hell am I supposed to sit in a courtroom and keep my cool when a jury lets one go?

Everybody loves the image. The perfectly lit picture, the curated aesthetic, the version of me that fits into their fantasy. But what happens when the camera’s off? When the conversation isn’t about angles or outfits, but about the weight of my thoughts? Does anybody actually want that girl—the one with the voice, the ideas, the mind? Or do they just want the body they can screenshot?

I’m working with brands, getting packages, signing emails like a real influencer… and still feeling terrified I won’t make it. This isn’t a success story — not yet. It’s the messy, unfiltered part in between. The part where you’re grateful but scared. Excited but anxious. Becoming, even when you’re unsure if you belong.

I would’ve convicted Diddy of everything and sued him for emotional distress after watching 40 minutes of his “Freak Off” footage. The jury had a chance to deliver real justice — and they fumbled. Acquitting him of sex trafficking and racketeering wasn’t mercy. It was a failure.

I’m not dramatic—I’m expressive. I don’t hide my sadness well, and I’ve stopped feeling bad about that. In this unfiltered reflection, I open up about what it’s like to feel everything out loud, why vulnerability shouldn’t be mistaken for a cry for attention, and how I’m done apologizing for emotions that refuse to be quiet.

I used to be the girl who didn’t speak up, who wanted everyone to like her, who confused being nice with being safe. But healing forced me to harden. I’m not cold—I’m just finally protecting myself. In this unfiltered reflection, I talk about how boundaries, detachment, and no longer caring what people think made me stronger, safer, and more myself than ever.

I don’t want a “perfect” body—I want a body that doesn’t send me into a spiral every time I catch the wrong angle. In this unfiltered reflection, I open up about the pressure to fix what’s never felt right, how OCPD impacts the way I see myself, and why I’m tired of pretending confidence is easy. This isn’t about vanity. It’s about peace.

I know some of you saw I reopened my OnlyFans and immediately started praying. But before you judge me,let me explain. This time isn’t like before. I’m not chasing fast money—I’m funding my future. College costs money. My blog costs money. And this time around, I have a plan, a budget, and the wisdom to do it right. This isn’t a relapse—it’s a redemption arc.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually healing—or if I’ve just become really good at feeling nothing. In this post, I open up about the emotional numbness that hides under high-functioning survival, and how easy it is to confuse dissociation with growth. If you’ve ever felt “fine” but disconnected from yourself, this one’s for you.

I used to love out loud. I used to believe that if you were good, the world would be too. But the more I gave, the more I lost—and somewhere along the way, the softness got replaced with steel. I wasn’t born this cold. Life made me this way.

Sometimes we grieve things that never officially began—people who never chose us, moments that never happened, versions of ourselves we never got to be. And sometimes, no matter how hard we try to move on, the pain lingers like a song stuck on loop. This isn’t weakness. It’s proof that we cared. And caring isn’t something I’m ever going to apologize for—even if it haunts me.

There’s a special kind of grief in outgrowing what once kept you alive. When the things that once brought you comfort—people, habits, identities—start to feel suffocating, you’re left with a brutal choice: cling to familiarity or save yourself. I chose myself. And it broke my heart.

There was a time I lived for approval. Now, I live for peace. People call me a bitch, but the truth is—I’m just real as f*ck. I’m not here to be digestible. I’m here to be honest. And if that’s intimidating? Good. That means I’m doing something right.

They say I’m overreacting. But what they really mean is: how dare I feel so deeply? I’m not overreacting—I’m reacting to a world that’s relentless in its harm, unapologetic in its injustice, and exhausted by my truth. Every tear, every outburst, every quiet withdrawal is a response to pain this world keeps pretending doesn’t exist.

I’m not yelling. I’m not slamming doors. I’m not writing paragraph-long texts begging to be heard. I’m quiet now—and that scares people more than anything. But what they don’t realize is that I’m not angry anymore. I’m exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually depleted from carrying rage that was never mine to hold in the first place. It’s not that I stopped caring—it’s that caring started killing me.

There’s a quiet kind of grief that comes with awareness—when you see injustice clearly, name it out loud, and realize most people would rather look away. In this raw reflection, I explore how knowledge, truth, and emotional depth can isolate you—and why I choose to keep speaking anyway.

I’ve always craved control—but I’ve always needed freedom. This piece unpacks the inner war between those two truths and how my birth chart helped me make sense of it. From my Capricorn rising to my Aquarius moon, astrology gave me the language to explore the contradictions I live with every day—and why I’m not just complicated. I’m layered.

It didn’t “go all the way.” But it went far enough to leave a mark. In this piece, I open up about the moment I froze while someone I trusted crossed a line—and how that fear stayed with me long after he stopped. This is about the weight of what almost happened, how it shaped my understanding of consent, and why I speak up now. Because silence might protect your peace—but the truth is what helps you heal.

I try to educate. I try to inform. But some days, I’m just trying not to scream. In this piece, I break down how I balance sarcasm and seriousness in my writing—why I joke, when I don’t, and how blogging became the only way I’ve ever truly learned to process anger without burning everything down.